Unforeseen Circumstances
by jeanie2914
Summary: It's Neal's first time out of the anklet, working undercover for the FBI. He's excited, the team's excited but Hughes and Peter, well, not so much. Set after Pilot and before Book of Hours...One-shot (albeit a long one).


_So, here it is..._

_SQUARE TWO**: Unforeseen Circumstance**s_

"I don't like this, Agent Burke," Hughes commented doubtfully, wearing a frown Neal had come to expect any time the man was in the same room with him. "There are too many variables; too many things that can go wrong."

The team had just presented Hughes with what was a simple, straightforward plan to recover a Mid 16th Century Tintoretto stolen from a private collector in Long Island. And catch a murderer in the process.

"I know there are, sir," Peter acknowledged, "But we still think this is the best option for success."

Agent Hughes hesitated, shifting his frown to Neal before speaking. "And there are no agents, no NYPD assets or undercovers in place we could use to do this?"

It left little doubt about what part of the plan he didn't like. The older man was looking at him but not speaking to him. Knowing this, Neal kept his mouth shut.

"Not anyone that has Neal's..." Peter eyes also flitted to him, pausing before choosing the right word, "_experience."_

Neal had heard that a thing could be both a blessing and a curse and that was pretty much how he felt about his life, both his past _and_ his present.

"Well, it's that _experience_ that concerns me," Hughes said dryly, "as well as the fact that he's a known flight risk."

"I understand your reservations, sir," Peter replied. "But as Nick Halden, Neal has an established reputation in these..." again he struggled for the word, "circles. He's confident if he puts the word out in the right places, this guy's gonna bite."

Neal again found himself the object of Hughes disapproving stare. And again, when Hughes spoke, he wasn't speaking to him but _about_ him.

"I don't know," Hughes shook his head, "Letting Caffrey out of the anklet for even a short time..."

Neal knew that was the crux of the issue. It had taken a lot of convincing to even get Peter to consider it. The basis of their agreement was that he wear the ankle monitor. It had been strapped to his leg before he set foot out of Sing Sing. But, as Neal had pointed out, while he was wearing the anklet he could only do so much for White Collar. It was like having a flashy sports car; you could listen to the engine purr in the garage but, until you actually took it on the road for a spin, you didn't know what it could do.

"If you even step foot _near_ a sports car..." Peter warned with a grin.

It wasn't a _hell no so _Neal took it as a go ahead.

"Come on, Peter," he pressed. "I can get this guy to come to us. I can get him, the painting _and_ a confession." It was every case agent's wish list. "Everything you need to wrap this up. But," he'd caveated with a dramatic shake of his left leg, "no one's gonna talk to me if I'm wearing a sign saying _I work for the FBI_."

"Well its either that or a sign saying property of the New York Department of Corrections," It was one of Peter's favorite rebuttals and it never got old. At least not to Peter. "No way in hell you're getting out of that anklet, Caffrey. I know you too well."

Not _hell no_ but _no way in hell; _A distinction without a difference. It had been a long shot but sometimes long shots paid off. Maybe next time, Neal told himself.

But the next time came much quicker than he had anticipated.

"So," Peter began as Neal fastened his seat belt the next morning. "Exactly how would you go about getting an art thief suspected of murder to bring you his painting and confess his crimes?"

Peter had shut him down the day before but he'd obviously given his suggestion thought; much like he had when Neal presented his offer to work for the FBI. Peter had dismissed it and Neal thought that was the end of it. However, just over four weeks ago, he'd learned Peter was arranging for an anklet monitor and a week after that, he'd walked out of prison in the custody of Agent Peter Burke.

It had taken Peter almost four months to accept his offer that time, this time, under twelve hours.

Neal tried to keep the excitement from his voice as he'd outlined the plan to Peter. Pretty much the same plan Peter had just presented to Agent Hughes.

There was, of course, one major difference.

"He'll have a GPS tracker in his watch," Peter was assuring his boss, "and on his phone." Peter's eyes settled on Neal. "And we will be monitoring his _every move_."

They'd already been over this extensively but Neal realized this time it was for Agent Hughes benefit.

"Watches and phones can be handed off, or dumped." Hughes was not convinced. "He'll be out of sight and carrying a helluva lot of cash. Seems pretty risky."

The _operation_ was risky, especially to him. He was the one meeting with a thief and murderer; the one that would be there without a weapon or a vest for protection. Any number of things could go wrong. His cover could be blown. The seller could pull a double-cross, deciding to keep both the money and the painting. For that matter, the man just might not like the way he looked and shoot him. Even if none of those things happened, there was still the chance of getting caught in the cross-fire when agents moved in. All of these were very real risks but the only one that bothered Hughes was that he'd not be wearing an anklet.

And be carrying a _helluva lot of money._ Okay, Neal thought to himself, the man had reason to be concerned. If he wasn't committed to sticking around New York until he found Kate, he'd be very tempted.

"Again, sir, I understand," Peter said. "But I assure you," his tone changed and his eyes, finding Neal's, narrowed in warning. "Neal knows what's at stake here. And what will happen if he puts as much as a_ toe_ out of line."

He knew that to convince Hughes to okay removing the anklet Peter had to demonstrate his control and show he could keep him in line. Still, being spoken about instead of to, as if he was a thing and not a person, rankled.

The room was silent and all eyes were on him.

_Damn,_ he thought furiously as his cheeks began to burn, _I'm blushing._

"Well, he's your asset" Hughes announced, signaling the end to the briefing. "If you're sure you can handle him then you have a go." Hughes got to his feet. "But let the Marshal's Service know," he added. "Just in case.".

The Marshal's would never catch him and Peter and the rest of the team knew it. Implying Peter would need their help was insulting.

And everyone knew it. Now, all eyes were on Peter.

There was the slightest tightening of his jaw. "Yes, sir."

It made the meeting a little more bearable.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Like I'd need the Marshal Service to find you," Peter muttered as he left the conference room. He wasn't sure what bugged him the most; Hughes suggesting he might lose Neal or that he'd need help catching him. He knew Hughes was just covering his bases but really, the Marshal Service? They hadn't caught Neal the first time; he had.

"Feeling insulted?" Neal piped up behind him. "Try sitting in a briefing where they talk about you like you're some kind of wild animal they're debating releasing. Pardon me if I don't have a lot of sympathy."

Peter knew the meeting had been tough on Neal's ego-he'd seen his cheeks flush-but he'd have to get used to it. This had been his idea, to come work for the FBI, and this was part of it. He was a resource, plain and simple, and it was up to him, and Agent Hughes, to decide how to use him.

"Not a wild animal, Neal, a convicted _felon,_" he shot back, feeling little sympathy himself. "We're lucky Agent Hughes agreed to this. He's under a lot of scrutiny for bringing you in, and if do anything to-"

"Well, Peter, you could just line my shirt collar with some primer strip, you know, then if I put a_ toe out of line,_ you can just _decapitate_ me."

"Dammit Neal," Peter exploded, spinning around. "That's _enough._" Neal drew up short, taking a half-step back, his eyes widening in surprise. "Get down there and start working your contacts," Peter ordered, unwilling to explain his sudden outburst. "Let's see if you can deliver on your promises."

He didn't wait for Neal to respond before stepping into his office and closing the door. He circled the desk and sank down in his chair, eyes falling to the paperwork currently on his desk:

The autopsy report for Donavan Whitten, the recently murdered owner of the stolen painting.

Neal hadn't seen the body, hadn't seen how the cord used to strangle him had cut into the man's throat. He hadn't read the notations from the Coroner stating the assailant had continued to increase pressure for several moments after Whitten's death. He hadn't read the term _partial decapitation. _

Neal knew Whitten had been strangled during the robbery, but he didn't know the details. He'd thought it was the quickest, quietest way to dispatch the man without alerting anyone else in the house. Although it might have started as a pragmatic thing, judging from the report in front of him, it had ended as something much more disturbing.

A violent, brutal act the perpetrator enjoyed so much he hadn't been able to stop even after his victim was dead.

Agent Hughes had reservations about sending Neal to a meeting without an anklet but he had reservations about sending Neal to a meeting with a person capable of such brutality as had been unleashed on Donavan Whitten.

Neal had signed up to work as a consultant and he was a good one. He was smart, had an uncanny eye for details, and brought a whole new perspective to law enforcement; that of the law-breaker. But he hadn't signed up to risk his life and, even if this had been his idea, Peter still felt uneasy about putting him in harm's way.

Neal might be a resource, an asset, but he was more than that; he was a person.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal could hardly contain his excitement as Peter turned the key to deactivate and unfasten the anklet. He'd read after a while a person would forget it was there but so far that hadn't happened. With the right socks, it didn't chafe as much but he was still very keenly aware of it. He'd been wearing it for twenty-nine days.

He'd been afraid this wouldn't happen, that Peter would find a reason to scrap the plan or at least his part in it. As they'd waited for the thief to make contact, Peter had been distant, pre-occupied and short tempered. He'd seemed to immediately have second thoughts about the operation, he'd nearly taken his head off after briefing Agent Hughes, but having presented it he couldn't just back out. Neal wasn't sure if Peter was doubting his ability to deliver what he promised or if he just didn't trust him to be out of sight and out of the anklet.

Less than seventy-two hours after putting the plan in motion, Nick Halden was contacted by a man needing to move a painting in a hurry.

With Agent Jones hovering over him, Neal had made his calls but it hadn't been through them the connection had been made; it had been through Mozzie. He hadn't been happy about it, Neal Caffrey, working with _the man_ and turning on his own but Neal told him that no murderer counted as _his own. _Begrudgingly and with appropriate self-loathing that he, too, was now assisting _the man_, Mozzie had agreed to get the word out. And it had paid off. Peter had briefed Agent Hughes, thankfully he hadn't had to be there, and they were ready to move forward.

The team seemed pumped, he was pumped, but Peter seemed more resigned than excited.

He didn't like the location, a vacant floor in a highrise in Queens, or that the team would be a floor below when the deal took place. Neal, AKA Nick, had been told there would be spotters in the lobby as well as in other locations in the building. If he didn't do exactly what he was told, if anyone even walked too close to him or otherwise seemed out of place, the deal was off. Uncertain as to who would be watching or how, Peter opted to move his teams in under the guise of legitimate visitors. The NYPD back up was going in as a maintenance crew, Jones and Berigan, posing as a couple, were shopping for a divorce attorney, and Peter, ready to start planning for a yacht to retire on was visiting the investment firm of Morgan & Chase.

The monitoring and recording equipment, packaged as a new desktop computer and printer, had already been delivered, set up and was ready to go.

The cash, in small, unmarked and non-consecutive bills, had been signed out and loaded into a duffle bag according to the seller's stipulations. According to Whitten's Documentation, the piece was valued at between two and three million but, as any good thief knew, hot items were hard to move-especially those with a body attached-and never brought even their lowest market value. Neal had enjoyed the mix of disapproval and respect he'd seen on the team's faces as he'd negotiated the price from three million down to a million and a half.

He had been equipped with the burn phone used to make the arrangements, a wallet containing items of identification, and a rather unimpressive watch equipped with a one-way mic and a GPS chip. He'd been shown how to turn off the transmitter in case of a sweep, which would likely be part of the customary search and frisk that accompanied such dealings, and warned that if it was offline for more than two minutes, the team, ready or not, would move in.

The warning against trying to circumvent the tracking devices or having any off-record conversation was implied rather than directly stated, for which Neal was appreciative. However, it had been followed by the reminder that he was working on a case by case basis and any misstep could result in a termination of the work-release agreement. For what felt like the hundredth time, Neal assured Peter he understood. Having gotten through that, and one last review of the plan, it was time to move.

"Don't get used to it," Peter warned as Neal stood up, unable to keep from grinning at the lightness of his feet. "As soon as this is done, it goes back on."

"Until the next time?" Neal asked hopefully, straightening his tie. Working for White Collar would be so much more fun if he could do things like this. It had always been the thrill he enjoyed most and even though the monetary rewards were pretty good too, that had never been the reason he chose a job. He chose them for the challenge, the risk, the excitement. Everything he was feeling right now.

If he wasn't stuck reading boring case files, doing paperwork, and fetching coffee, he might even consider finishing his out sentence at White Collar.

"We'll see." It wasn't no_ way in hell._ Neal grinned, holding out his hand for the key to the sedan he'd be taking to the meeting.

Peter was about to drop it in his hand but he paused with a frown. "Neal-"

"I _know,_ Peter," Neal cut in, not needing nor wanting to hear the same warning yet again. "If I screw up, deviate from the plan or don't hold my face right I go back to prison. _ Got it._"

He shook his extended hand impatiently, but Peter still didn't release the key.

"Listen, Neal," Peter began again, his tone insistent. Resigned that he wasn't getting the key without one more firm warning followed by the usual threats, Neal lowered his hand. "This is dangerous," he warned, "and not like scaling-a-wall or repelling-down-an-elevator-shaft dangerous; this man's a _killer._" Neal was aware of the man's crimes, art theft being the least of them, and he'd already signed a waiver. He knew what he was getting into. After all, it had been his idea. "I know what I've said about delivering," Peter continued, "but if something feels off, if you get even a_ hint_ that things are taking a turn you don't like, call an audible and _get us in there_."

"Nothing's gonna go wrong, Peter," Neal assured him, ready to get past the negativity and get the show on the road. "And if it does. I can handle it."

"I don't want you to _handle it," _Peter countered harshly. "Don't try to fix it, get things back on track or make it work." His expression softened, as did his tone. "I'm _serious_, Neal, don't take any chances." Peter's eyes pleaded with his. "_Promise me."_

For a moment, Neal didn't know how to react, not just to his words but to the sentiment expressed in them. Peter was actually worried, not about him being off anklet or not getting what they needed to wrap up the investigation, but about _him._

He hadn't expected it nor the way it made him feel. Strange. Happy. _Confused._

His throat felt tight.

"I promise."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal moved down the hallway to Suite 1506, pulled open the door and stepped inside. The weighted door closed silently behind him as he glanced around the dimly lit room. There were no human eyes watching him but there were four vents in the ceiling that could easily hide small digital ones. He crossed the room, entered the wide hallway and followed it down to the set of double doors at the far end. Behind them was the meeting location, the place he was supposed to be. He stopped, pausing a moment to run his hand through his hair. If anyone were watching, he'd just look nervous.

And he was nervous but just a little bit; it was more excitement than nerves, he told himself.

"Here we go," he muttered as his wrist neared his face. A moment later, he pushed the doors open and stepped inside.

It was a large room, likely designed as a conference or meeting area, but the only furnishings he could see was a foldable, plastic table set up in the middle of the expanse. The corners of the room were in shadows, the only illumination coming from a single, recessed spotlight positioned just above the table.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Halden." It wasn't the voice he'd heard over the phone. Not by a long shot. Across the room, a figure emerged. A young, _pretty_ figure. "I think you have something for me."

The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. She had dark hair, was slenderly built and was dressed in business casual. She seemed pleasant however the nine millimeter she had leveled at his chest told him she was anything but. The thief had sent a middle man, or rather middle woman, in his stead.

Neal's vision of trapping a killer and getting a confession out of him was quickly fading.

"I thought I was meeting with the _new_ owner of the Tintoretto. Not a proxy."

"I'm offended." The corners of her mouth turned down petulantly as she moved toward the center of the room. "Do you not think a woman is as capable of stealing a painting as a man is?"

He knew women were capable of any crime; unlawful entry, grand larceny, murder. And though she might well have the disposition to kill, this woman hadn't killed Donavan Whitten. She simply didn't have the physical requirements.

"Not at all," he assured her, keeping his tone conversational. "In fact, one of the best thieves I know is a woman. I do have something for you," he continued, holding up the duffle. "But do _you_ have something for _me_?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," she teased as if they were talking about something other than cash and a stolen painting.

"Sounds good to me." Assuming the table was where the show and tell would take place, Neal started across the room.

"That's far enough, Mr. Halden," the woman said before he reached his destination. "Now I need for you to take off your clothes."

He looked at her in disbelief. It wasn't the show and tell he was expecting. "_Excuse me_?"

"Well, I can't exactly come over there and frisk you, can I?" She sounded so reasonable. "So you're just going to have to _show me _you're not carrying a gun."

Neal could just imagine the fun the folks listening below were having at his predicament.

"I'm not," he assured her. "I don't _like_ guns. Especially when they are being pointed at me."

"Sorry," she smiled, giving a small shrug of mock regret. "But I can't just take your word for it. Down to your underwear or this meeting is over."

This was definitely taking a turn he didn't like but, given it was his dignity at risk and not his life, Neal didn't call in the cavalry. Instead, he elected to comply and began removing his clothing.

"Very nice, Mr, Halden," she cooed as he dropped his slacks to the floor. The room was quite drafty. "Now, give me a spin so I can get a good look."

Peter would never let him forget this. First time in the field and when the big moment came, when he gave the word and the team rushed in, he was going to be standing there in his socks and tightly-whiteys. Not at all the way he'd seen it playing out.

"You might as well call me Nick," he quipped, raising his hands and doing a slow-motion pirouette. "Satisfied?"

"Yes, _Nick_," she complied warmly. "Thank you. Take the bag to the table, take out the money and count it out to me."

Neal approached the table but she stayed where she was, several feet on the other side, the barrel of the gun following his every step. He put the bag down, opened it and took out the bundles one by one, counting and stacking them in a neat row.

When he was finished, he looked up at her. "_Satisfied?_"

"Almost," she answered, ignoring his sarcasm. "Step back until I tell you to stop."

Even though this was taking longer than he had expected, making an exchange like this was very risky for a lone individual. Neal understood the layers of precautions she was taking but he held his ground nonetheless.

"Look," he held up his hands, coupling his resistance with a sign of submission. "I'm standing here in my underwear, I'm clearly unarmed and the money is here," he motioned impatiently to the stacks of currency. "I've shown you _mine_. Now it's your turn. I want to see the painting."

"Okay, _Nick_," she relented, taking his defiance in stride. "Relax." She gestured to her right. "It's there, in the closet. Go ahead," she urged with a nod."Get it and bring it to the table."

"I'll need my eye loup," he told her, glancing at the pile of discarded clothing near his feet, "to verify authenticity."

"Oh, Nick," her pout was exaggerated. "It's authentic."

"Sorry," he gave an easy smile and mirrored her earlier shrug of mock regret, "But I can't just take your word for it."

"Touche," she said in amusement. "Get your eye loup."

A moment later, eye loup in hand, he placed the package wrapped in brown paper he'd taken from the closet on the table. The size was right.

"It's not one of Tintorello's more well-known paintings," she commented, still keeping her distance as he began to unwrap it. "It was commissioned for a domestic setting but its still a nice piece."

"Right colorization," Neal noted once he'd removed the covering. He bent down, and using the eye loop, and took a closer look. After all, the devil was in the details. "perfect composition, bold brushwork." He glanced up. "I had the privilege of seeing _The Dreams of Men_ once," he ventured, wondering if she knew her art or was just playing the part. "It's quite impressive."

"_The ambitious must seize _opportunity_ because time is fleeting_." She knew her stuff. "Love, wealth, _power._" There was a subtle shift in body language; more tension in her face, her frame. "Those are not just the dreams of men, Nick," her eyes flashed in excitement. "They are the dreams of women as well."

Neal straightened, mildly concerned by her sudden change in countenance as something flashed past his face.

"Wh-" The word was cut off along with his airflow as something tightened around his throat and pulled him backward.

Panic seized him as he realized what was happening. The discarded eye loop clattered onto the table as his hands instinctively went to his neck, fingers digging at the cord now robbing him of oxygen. He could feel someone behind him, a heaving chest against his back, labored breathing near his ears as the cord was pulled tighter. This was how Donovan Whitten had died and it was only a matter of seconds before he did the same. He kicked a foot back, aiming for a shin or knee, but found nothing but empty air. He tried to twist, to break the man's grip but it did no good. He lowered an arm and drove his elbow as hard as he could into the mass behind him. Nothing.

The woman, who until now had kept her distance, approached in quick steps. As she drew closer, Neal could see the passage of time had stamped her face more than he'd realized. The room's poor lighting and the distance between them had made her appear younger than she was. She stopped in front of him, watching as he struggled-needing air and unable to get any-with a small smile of satisfaction.

_She wanted to watch him die._

His lungs were screaming for oxygen, his heart was hammering in his ears but he couldn't make a sound. He couldn't call Peter, alert the team, beg for his life.

A cool hand touched his straining, sweat-drenched stomach. "Mmmmm..." Her eyes were bright with maniacal excitement. "Young _and_ strong..."

His head was pounding furiously as if his brain was outgrowing his skull. There was roaring in his ears and his hands began to tingle. He was about to pass out and when he did, he'd never wake again. He kept clawing at the cord around his throat; it was wet and slippery beneath his fingers. If he could get one gulp of air, could make one guttural cry for help...

Hoping an unexpected collision would loosen the man's grip, he used his weakening legs as leverage, arched his back and slung his head back as hard as he could.

There was a solid impact and a sharp grunt of pain.

"_G**d**m it_," the man hissed angrily in his ear. "You little _shit._"

But instead of loosening his grip, he tightened it, jerking the cord back and nearly lifting him off the floor.

Somewhere in the distance, the woman giggled. "It's so much better when they fight."

Neal flailed wildly, his legs kicking and hand clawing at the man's forearm but his efforts were useless. His head was exploding, his lungs on fire. He could see the tiles in the ceiling above...the rows of empty spotlights sockets...he could feel the cord cutting deeper and deeper into his neck...

His field of sight began to constrict, drawing in like a collapsing circle leaving everything outside it in darkness. He gave a last, few, futile swipes at the man's face as the energy drained from his limbs and the small pinpoint of light disappeared.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Did we just lose audio?"

Peter, along with Diana and an NYPD tactical team was in the ready position on the southeast stairwell outside the entrance to the fifteen floor. The second tactical team, lead by NYPD Captain Rand, was posted in the northeast stairwell. The meeting in Suite 1506 was wrapping up and they were waiting for the go signal.

Neal's voice, which had been coming in clearly, had just cut out mid-word, followed by an odd clatter, and then silence.

Peter looked across the stairwell entrance at Diana. "I swear if he's turned off-"

"He hasn't turned it off, boss," Jones, monitoring from Suite 1404, assured in his ear. "GPS is still tracking, the mic is still open."

Jones was right; something was coming through. Not voices but there were sounds. "I'm hearing _something_, Jones."

"Yeah," Jones confirmed, "there's some kind of ambient noise." Peter cupped his hand over the ear whig, listening intently. Rustling maybe? Movement? "I'll see if I can get some volume on it."

"Maybe they're passing notes," Diana offered, her face drawn as she also strained to hear what was transpiring down the hall.

It was possible. There had been something, be it flirtation or odd familiarity, between Neal and the woman with the painting. Hell, for all he knew the two of them could be friends from way back. Passing notes would be a good way for them to communicate without anyone being the wiser.

"You still got a signal on his GBS, right?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Jones said, "both of them. See if this is better."

The mic turned up, the sounds were now more clear, more defined. Heavy breathing, punctuated by an occasional grunt of exertion, was coming through loud and clear.

"Sounds to me like they're passing more than notes," Jones commented wryly.

Peter's face flamed; the first time Neal had a chance to prove he could be trusted and he was screwing it up. _Literally._ He couldn't believe Neal would be so reckless, so stupid, as to blow his deal with the FBI for a quick tryst with a woman.

At least, not with any woman other than Kate Moreau.

"Mmmm..." It was the woman's voice that burst through his earpiece a moment later causing him to flinch in discomfort before Jones made the necessary adjustment. "Young_ and_ strong."

Instead of inciting more anger the woman's words caused a prickle of unease at the base of his spine; something was off.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jones was muttering but Diana's reaction was different; her head tilted suddenly, a look of alarm on her face. She'd picked up on what he had. Neal was panting but the woman was not, her voice was calm and seductive. Diana verbalized his thoughts.

"Something's not right." She raised her weapon, her eyes fixed expectantly on his as another sound came through the mic.

A sharp grunt of pain followed by a coarse _G**damn it. _It was a man's voice but it wasn't Neal's.

"You little _shit,"_ the man hissed in Peter's ear.

Peter knew the horrified realization in Diana's face was mirrored in his own.

"Move!" he shouted, shoving through the stairwell door. "Move in now!"

Peter bounded down the hallway, stopping at the door of Suite 1506 when all he wanted to do was to get to Neal. "Rand, you in position?"

Rand and his team would enter the suite from the rear entrance, converging with Peter's team in the large meeting room.

"Yes, sir," came the quick reply. "Ready on your go."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"FBI!" Peter shouted, pushing through the double doors and rushing into the room. "Hands in the air!"

The woman's face registered shock as Federal agents and the black-clad tactical teams flooded the room and the man, whose back had been turned, shifted to face Peter.

She was holding a handgun at her side and the man was holding Neal's pale motionless body clasped against his chest. Peter's stomach knotted in horror at the black cord pulled tautly against Neal's throat.

"Drop it, lady," Rand barked as he approached quickly from the other direction, his gun trained squarely on the woman.

"Let him go!" Peter ordered a half second later; Rand had the woman, he'd take the man. "Let him go _now!_"

After only a moment of hesitation, the woman complied, dropping the gun soundlessly to the carpeted floor but the man refused to yield. Holding Neal both as a hostage and a shield, he adjusted as Peter approached, making a clean shot impossible.

"Drop him, you son-of-a-bit*h," Peter growled, knowing every second that passed was another second Neal wasn't breathing.

"I got the shot, boss," Diana said evenly from several feet to his left.

The man's forearms bulged, his grip on the cord holding Neal's limp body in place. Neal's eyes were closed, his face red and mottled and his throat bloody.

_"Take it."_

The shot rang out and the woman, her hands now being cuffed behind her back by Captain Rand, let out a scream as both the man and Neal dropped to the floor.

"Get medical here, Jones," Peter said, holstering his weapon as he rushed to where Neal lay. He was face down, the man's arm draped across his him. Peter moved the man's arm and rolled Neal onto his back. The cord had fallen away but it had left behind a blaze of red. Blood was oozing from a cut across the esophagus that extended an inch or so on either side before turning into a deep, red indentation that circled his neck. Pressing his fingers to Neal's carotid, Peter felt a faint flutter; Neal's heart was beating but he wasn't breathing.

There was motion around him, noise and activity, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the man in front of him.

"Neal," he said sharply, tapping his cheek insistently. "Come on, Neal." There was no response. "Come _on_," he said with more urgency, placing his hand on Neal's chest. He pressed down firmly, then released. "Come on," he did it again, feeling panic start to set in. "You gotta _breathe, _Neal."

A sound, almost a sign, escaped Neal's lips. And then a gasp.

"Yeah," Relief flooded him as Neal's chest began to heave beneath his palm. "That's it, Neal," he encouraged, "Just breathe."

His brain oxygenated, Neal eyes flew open in panic, his hand automatically reaching for his throat.

"It's okay," Peter reassured quickly, catching Neal's hand before it could reach the bloody mess. "It's okay, Neal." Wide, bloodshot eyes found his. "You're safe," he said firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Neal's frightened ones. "You're alright." He eased Neal's hand down. "Just breath. Medical is on the way."

Neal seemed to be calming down but suddenly he was agitated. He grabbed Peter's forearm and tried to speak but the effort only produced a raw, painful cough.

"Don't try to talk," Peter instructed him. "Where the hell _are_ they, Jones?"

"On the way up now, boss," Jones assured him, "a minute away."

"They're almost here, Neal," he relayed. "Just try to relax."

Neal was not relaxing. Still clenching his arm Neal shook his head furiously and again tried to speak; his lips moved but no sound emerged.

Seeing that his anxiety was escalating, Peter leaned closer to Neal's now ashen face.

"What is it, Neal," he asked, wondering what was so intensely important. "What are you trying to tell me?"

Neal's lips moved; Peter tilted his head to the side and listened carefully.

"Clothes..." came the faint, raspy answer. "I need my _clothes._"

Peter raised up, his eyes meeting Neal's desperate ones. With everything he'd just been through, he was worried about his dignity.

"Okay, buddy," Peter chuckled, shedding his jacket. "I gotcha." He placed the jacket over Neal, covering his torso as the EMT's came through the door. "That better?"

Neal nodded, relief evident in his eyes. Again, his lips moved, but no sound came out.

_Thanks, Peter._

"You're welcome, kid."

The End

_Square Two: Clawing at own throat_


End file.
